


here be dragons

by teaofpeach



Series: hospitality [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Affection, Attempted Seduction, Awkward Flirting, Banter, Enemies to Friends, F/M, First Meetings, Flirting, Gen, Innuendo, Mild Language, Misunderstandings, No use of y/n, Oral Fixation, POV Second Person, Reader is Part-Togruta, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Size Difference, Suggestive Themes, Time Skips, [implied] - Freeform, [nothing explicit in this work], also just regular
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:35:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25182607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaofpeach/pseuds/teaofpeach
Summary: It's raining. There's a Mandalorian at the door.[Takes place before 'the sweetest and most important sound'.]
Relationships: Paz Vizla & Reader, Paz Vizla/Reader, Paz Vizla/You
Series: hospitality [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1821520
Comments: 18
Kudos: 114





	1. here be dragons

**Author's Note:**

> me? posting something in the right order?? wow.
> 
> anyway, this is the first official part to the hospitality series! exciting stuff. in case you didn't notice, this takes place WAY before 'the sweetest and most important sound'; i'm working my way up to that one, in order of events.
> 
> drop some kudos and comments if you liked. or you know, if you didn't. :)

It’s late.

You lie in your cot, staring into the darkness. Unable to sleep, surrounded by the vicious tempest outside. It’s raining heavily; pelting down so hard you can hear it through the roof and feel it through the floor. Occasionally, you hear a boom of thunder, and the inn doors rattle and shake.

You’re glad you fixed the waterproofing this morning.

In a storm like this, you hold some half-hearted hope that a traveller will stop by. Someone soaked and freezing; desperate enough for you to hike up the price of lodging without turning away business.

Swindling a tourist here and there can’t hurt, in the grand scheme of the galaxy. You have to eat, after all.

The rich scent of waterlogged earth fills the room, and something about it seems unfamiliar. You’ve accustomed to the occasional downpour by now, having lived on Takodana for many years. But the lingering air of petrichor reminds you just how different home was — all dry deserts and salt flats, the odd dust storm. Certainly no lush greenery or blue skies. 

As a lump settles in your throat, you miss the mechanic stand from your childhood. The slick smear of oil on your mother’s cheek as she gave the speeder a tune-up. The stripes on your father’s montrals above the welding mask as he soldered wires back together. When he was done, he’d always squish your little face in his palms. Smoothing his thumbs over the white markings on your face, near identical to his. The only symbol of your Togruta heritage, contrasted on a face of your mother’s colouring. 

You sigh, and sit up. Now, you’re stuck here. Running an inn by yourself, out of business and in denial about it. You miss the feeling of freedom that came and left with youth; running through the streets, being swept up in warm, protective arms. Your mother rolling her eyes. Your father’s laugh.

Suddenly, a bang. You hear front doors slide open, and your heart leaps into your throat. The sound rings in your ears for a moment with its violence. Blindly, you grab the vibroblade from the table and scramble to the entrance. You’ve never used it before, and you pray the doors are just malfunctioning.

As you skirt through the narrow passageway, your stomach drops. No such luck. A large, silhouetted figure stands before the main desk, looming ominously as the wind howls outside. Maker, they’re _huge_. Far bigger than you, and a small, nagging part of your brain says they could kill you in a heartbeat.

It’s still dark. Frozen as you are, you haven’t turned the lamp on. In vain, you hope they might leave if no-one arrives. A bolt of lightning flashes outside, and the glare arcs off the stranger’s helmet.

Your eyes widen at the glimpse of a smooth, glass t-visor. A Mandalorian.

Oh, you’re _fucked._

In that moment, they turn to you directly. The back of your neck tingles, and you realise they can see you. Their helmet turns down to the vibroblade in your hands, before returning to your face calmly. Of course. You don’t think you’re a very threatening sight, cowering in the doorway like this.

You feel remarkably stupid.

Hesitantly, you step forward and switch on the lamp at the desk with your free hand. Light pours out softly between you, doing nothing to calm your nerves. You squint, eyes adjusting to the brightness, trying to control the pounding of your heart.

“I am in need of lodging.” 

You blink. The voice, low and rumbling, is scrambled by a vocoder. Male, from what you can tell, and the static scratches at your ears. He’s covered from head-to-toe in deep blue armour; rivulets of water drip off the steel, puddling on your floor. Some kind of pack rests on his back, and you try, fruitlessly, to ignore the glint of a trigger and scope. 

Towering over you, you’d have to crane your head just to look him in the visor. You don’t have the nerve, in any case.

It occurs to you, faintly, that you could die tonight. It also occurs to you that the chances of an untimely demise would be significantly higher, if you keep gawking at him like this.

“Uh…”

“Lodging,” he repeats, sounding distinctly impatient. “Is there a vacancy?”

_Maker, when is there not._

“Yes! Yes, there’s a— there’s a vacancy.” Fumbling for the log-holo, you set the vibroblade down in a cubby under the desk. Still within reach, and your receptionist autopiloting kicks in. “Uh, single room, how many nights?” You glance up at the shiny helm. The usual questions, but it feels… impertinent, asking for information. Like you’re violating his sanctity, or something, just daring to _wonder._ Especially about someone so clearly hostile. How does a faceless sheet of beskar manage to make your stomach churn?

“One.”

Of that, you’re grateful. One night, and you’ll be done with this. “Okay,” you reply, dragging out the sound. You sound nervous. He must be able to tell. “And, uh, name?”

He stares you down. It suddenly feels cold, frigid, even though his visage most definitely cannot change. It strikes you, in that moment, that even your sensitive nose can’t detect anything on him. The rain has washed it all away, except for a stubborn, smokey hint of blaster ammunition. _Recently fired._ A shiver runs up your spine.

Acerbically, he snaps, “Pick one.” There’s a rising heat behind the words, you don’t push your luck.

“I’ll— I’ll just put ‘Mando’,” you mutter, entering the moniker into the log. Once again, in the span of less than five minutes, you feel like a moron. Heat rushes to your cheeks.

But there’s one more caveat. You should probably forget it, just this once, but for some reason: “You’re not allowed to bring weapons inside. While— While you’re staying.”

A golden rule. One of the conditions upon which you were even allowed to run this place was your responsibility to maintain peace. (You often wonder what the Pirate Queen was thinking, believing you capable of breaking up any kind of violence.)

To your relief, the Mandalorian doesn’t explode with rage, or any such violent gestures. His shoulders are tense, but this — dealing with irritated, tired travellers — is familiar. He’s no different, you tell yourself.

“The weapons stay.”

“I can’t let you—”

“I’m a Mandalorian. Weapons are part of my religion.” You blink, and your silence seems enough for him to continue. “I won’t be using them on _you,_ if that’s what you’re worried about. Keep your distance, and there won’t be a problem.”

A threat. Perhaps he’s trying to reassure you, in some strange way, but it doesn’t stop the cold fist of dread from closing around your heart.

“I’m… not supposed to—”

“You have my word.”

A muscle in your jaw ticks. Despite the nerves wrenching your stomach, there’s an urge to stand your ground. To defend the principles of Maz’s territory. (Or, more selfishly, to rebuke how easily he’s trampling all over you.) You shift, ready to argue.

But then he moves, one hefty arm lifting upwards, and you flinch. He pauses, before fishing a leather pouch out of a pocket and dropping it on the counter. You hear the familiar clink of credits. The sound elicits an instinctual reaction, a lurch of hope. You lean forward with a frown, inspecting the offering.

You gingerly pluck it by the drawstring, and its weight is a pleasant surprise. The contents are promising — a fee far exceeding the cost of one night’s stay.

A prickling mixture of shame and embarrassment heat your cheeks. Oh, how _quickly_ your righteous anger fades at the promise of payment. Again, the back of your neck tingles. A reminder, that the Mandalorian is watching.

Taking a steadying breath, you bring your eyes back to the visitor. “Should I… show you to your room?”

A beat, then he nods.

You step to the side and flick the overhead lights on, waiting for him to go first. But he continues staring, and your skin itches with the weight of judgement. You realise he’ll only follow behind.

You swallow thickly, keeping your gaze averted as you lead him inside. Your little bungalow inn doesn’t have that many rooms to begin with, so you keep them all clean and ready for a guest — that’s not the issue. 

But you have to go the night knowing there’s an elite warrior, perfectly capable of silencing your heartbeat, staying two doors down. You have to sleep with that knowledge.

You realise the vibroblade still rests in your palm. It feels clunky. Foolish, in your inexperienced hand. The Mandalorian’s heavy footsteps thud behind you, accented by the clank of metal armour. You clamp down the urge to rub the back of your tingling neck, and in some peculiar urge to reconcile, you half-turn to him as you walk. Slowly, showing him the weapon. 

“Ah, I wouldn’t use this, you know. On you.” He’s crushingly silent, appraising you. He has to duck his head slightly to fit in the passageway, nearly filling up its width with his bulk.

You blather on, blindly spitting out words to fill the silence. “It’s just— all sorts pass through here, you know? This place has Kanata’s stamp of approval and all, but better safe than sorry.”

Still, no response, and you wince at just how _green_ you sound. You swallow, having reached the doorway; you’ve led him to the quarters with the largest bed, having figured he’ll need it.

“There’s instructions to set the passcode inside. If you need anything,” you say, hoping he won’t, “I’m that door over there.” For one, awkward moment, you stand, feeling horribly out of place with the brooding figure at your side. “Well. Goodnight, then.”

You turn around, credits and blade in hand, ready to step into your quarters and get some _kriffing_ rest, when the crawling, fuzzy feeling on the nape of your neck intensifies. 

With one foot through the doorway, you hear him call out to you. “I thought no weapons were permitted.” A coarse noise crackles through the vocoder, and you realise it’s a laugh. You feel a cold sweat run down your back. “Is that blade just for show, then, little innkeeper?”

He— he sounds _amused._ Finding entertainment in your clear disadvantage. You feel sick, sick to your stomach, and slam the button to close the door behind you. Wetness springs to your eyes like clockwork, but the tears don’t fall even as you collapse on your cot. You’re pathetic, you think. Unable to stop him from belittling you, never mind barring him entry. 

Sleep, though it eventually comes, is fitful and disturbed. Phantom helmets and mocking, modulated laughter fill your head.

In the morning, his room is emptied out. Bed made, fresher tidied. 

No trace of the Mandalorian, at all. You’ve never been more grateful.

———

The second time you meet the Mandalorian, you’ve got your hands full.

“I’m not running a charity here.”

A Zabrak man has his hands planted on the desk, leaning into your space uncomfortably. Maker, guests like these test your patience.

It’s a poor attempt at intimidation. He’s taller than you, certainly, but gangly in a way that screams awkward, rather than lean. Scrawny, drawn out. Even the spikes protruding from his yellowish face are lumpy and faded. You wrinkle your nose at the faint, rank odour of sweat and booze. Overall, you’re unimpressed.

Besides, imposing figures don’t phase you much anymore. Not since that fateful encounter, nearly a cycle ago. You’d feared for your life that night.

Few were as large a threat as that Mandalorian.

The Zabrak hisses in your face, “Maz Kanata owes me a great debt. I’ll take it out of my bill.”

In your periphery, you can hear the telltale sounds of landing gear outside — a new arrival, but you can’t deal with that right now.

You blink slowly, and sigh. “Listen, this shtick you’re trying to pull? I’ve heard it before.” So, so many times. You’re not the only cheapskate in these parts. “You have a problem with Maz, you take it up with her. She doesn’t control my inn any more than I control the Castle.” That’s… not exactly true. But you doubt it matters to him.

Twisting his face unpleasantly, the man snarls, “I demand recompense, innkeeper. Return my credits, and we won’t have a problem.” 

You recall being browbeaten at similar words. That night you cowed, frozen by the weight of mortality hanging over your head. But you have since hardened in the months that passed, and you steel your resolve.

Leaning close to the Zabrak, getting in his face, you speak through bared teeth. “You’re right. You get out of my inn, and we won’t.” Curling your lips into a disgusted half-sneer, “So I’ll be keeping _my_ credits.”

“Insolent fool,” the Zabrak growls, and he moves to reach for something concealed behind his back. You jaw clenches — how did you miss that he was _armed?_ — and you flinch backwards as he reveals a blaster. Before you can reach for your trusty vibroblade, the doors slide open with an innocent _ting._

Standing there in the doorway, is your Mandalorian.

Your eyes widen at the sight of him, huge as ever, ducking his head to step over the threshold. Armed to the teeth, as per usual. He saunters forward slowly, purposefully. The swagger, the presence in his gait impossibly makes him seem… bigger? Somehow even _more bulky_ than last time?

The Zabrak whirls round, only to balk at the steely-blue cuirass his chin comes to level with. He’s harmless compared to the warrior before him. You can only imagine how tiny you must seem. The Mandalorian keeps his head inclined down to the horned man, who's now gripping the desk behind him, but his words are for you.

“Trouble, innkeeper?”

Maker, it’s been months since you heard that rumbling voice. It still knots your stomach, but less so, you think, than it did. You’re surprised he remembers you.

Your confidence with the pesky guest has not dissipated, however, and you find your words. “I don’t know.” You address the Zabrak calmly, “ _Is_ there any trouble, sir? It’d be a shame if things got… unpleasant.”

The wilting man cranes his head to you with a frantic look in his eye, and you feel a flash of pity. Ah, _kriff_. You’ve made your point.

Glancing at the Mandalorian, you make a subtle ‘back-up’ motion with your palm, half-wondering if he’ll take offence. But thankfully, he does as you request, and the Zabrak’s wheeze of relief is audible as he deflates.

“Takodana Castle,” you start, a little gentler than before, “Is three miles that way.” You thrust a thumb to the side. “One path, cuts through the forest. Can’t miss it.”

The Zabrak stumbles his way around the Mandalorian, never taking his wide eyes off the helmet. The armoured man steps aside silently, and it’s a wonder how he makes such a simple gesture seem so mocking. Saying that _he’s_ the one in control, even if it’s temporarily at your behest. All in the way he shifts, the dangerous glint of his blasters in the light.

The memory of his laugh, hearty and sinister, echoes in your brain. Your toes curl in your boots.

Once he’s out of the door, the Zabrak gains some ill-founded sense of security. His wiry frame tenses, and he glares at you, spitting, “Watch yourself, _halfbreed._ ” With a single, fleeting glance to the Mandalorian, he runs off towards the forest.

…ah.

You purse your lips, and look to the floor out of habit. Heat rushes to your cheeks. The slur is not unfamiliar to you. Your lack of montrals and lekku allow you to blend in, to lie low. But your markings reveal who you are. It’s strange; you think you’re proud of them. What they represent, who gave them to you. But the wave of shame that crashes over you sends blood roaring in your ears. For the Mandalorian to witness this? It’s a pitiful sight. 

In the corner of your eye, you see him clench a fist, and you quash the sickness of your heart down with a vengeance. There are more pressing matters at hand.

“So. It’s, uh, been a while.” You cringe at the heavy-handed attempt to change the subject. Now that cursed Zabrak has left, it’s like all your bravado has sputtered out. And, really? Last time you saw the Mandalorian, a man from a culture of _elite warriors_ , you thought he was going to murder you in your sleep. Been a while, indeed.

He plays along. “Well, I was in the area. Figured I should save the damsel in distress, while I had the chance.” He leans an elbow on the counter, resting his weight on it, and for a moment you’re perplexed. 

The Mandalorian is… teasing you. Relaxed against your desk, standing close but not enough to be invasive. It’s a far cry from that shadow in the pouring rain, haunting your doorstep. “Although, from where I was standing, you didn’t seem to need much help,” he continues smoothly.

_Compliments?_ Maker, if it were anyone else, you might even think he was making a pass at you.

But it’s _him,_ and you give the helmet a strange look. It’s a little freaky, in all honesty. “I… see. What business do you have here, then, Mandalorian?”

The helm sags slightly in what you can only describe as a falter. It’s jarring. So incongruent with the persona you have crafted in your mind.

“I can’t just drop by?” You imagine your disbelief is evident on your face, because he sighs, a deep and raspy thing, before his voice sobers a fraction. “I have business with the Pirate Queen.” Your shoulders slacken. Of course. It’s a relief, in some way, to know that the purpose of his visit is so normal.

You ready the holo-log at your side. “Ah, sure. How many nights?”

He straightens and rubs a hand to the back of his neck briefly. You stare at the offending limb, entranced by such a normal, hesitant movement. It's… It’s so very human, for lack of a better word. 

“I’m not looking for lodging.” You blink up at his visor, frowning. “My work should only take a day, at the most.”

“Then…” 

“I told you. Just wanted to drop in.” That doesn’t answer anything at _all_ , and he elaborates, “I rarely visit Takodana, innkeeper. I thought I’d say hello while I was here.”

Your lips part. _What?_ How… how can there be so much lost in translation? You’ve been afraid of this man, or a barebones idea of him, for months now. Like some kind of boogeyman, under-the-bed horror to spook children into good behaviour. And he comes to you with something like _friendliness_ , with a smart one-liner and warmth in his tone?

You shake your head, dazed; reluctantly, you decide to give it to him straight. “I… I wasn’t under the impression that we were friends, Mandalorian.” He stills, and you keep going. “Honestly, uh, last time. It wasn’t great, for me. You— You scared me.”

_‘You still do’_ sits on the tip of your tongue. In the disarming haze of his amicability, you can’t tell if it’s true or not. You ramble in the face of his silence, if only to quiet the conflict in your mind. “I thought that you’d— I mean, I thought that I might. Y’know. _Die_ , that night. I was tired, okay, and— and I didn’t know what to think…”

You trail off.

The Mandalorian stands before you, wordless. Your knees aren’t trembling, but there’s a worry seated deep in your chest. It’s interesting, maybe, that you don’t know who it’s for. Guilt begins to creep up on you, bitter at the back of your throat. _Kriff._ Just as you open your mouth to say something, his voice comes through the vocoder. 

“I apologise. I was not… I did not know. It was never my intention to scare you.” His voice sounds _hoarse_ , like the very thought of your fear repulses him. His words are not clumsy, per se, but there’s a rawness there that makes you notice how eloquent he usually sounds. The visor does not stray from your face. “I am sorry. Truly, I am sorry.” His shoulders are slumped, and he’s curling in on himself slightly. Making himself smaller, you realise faintly, and he presses a gloved hand to his chest. The helmet bows. “ _Ni ceta._ I apologise, innkeeper.”

You blink rapidly, not knowing what to say. That’s… an awful lot to take in. You can’t remember the last time someone really begged for your forgiveness like this. You swallow thickly. _Don’t cry._

The air seems muggy, somehow. Heated. As if all the truth that has burst forth carries a flame with it, burning the space between you. Hesitantly, you place a hand on his vambrace. The metal is cool against the warmth of your palm, and you’re careful not to touch any of the buttons on the control panel. 

“Thank you,” you murmur. “I appreciate that. It’s— it’s alright. I think.” You nod determinedly, as if to reaffirm your words.

Heartfelt apologies don’t spill out so easily from heartless men, surely. He’s worth more trust than you give him. And his stance — defeated, ashamed — no, it doesn’t suit him at all. The helm tilts back up to your face, and you shoot him a small smile. Some kind of impulse lurches in your chest; to comfort, to come together. It’s genuine, and there’s a rosy warmth to your cheeks that feels pleasant.

You slide your hand away from his arm to offer it in the air. It hovers boldly, an attempt to bridge the abyss. It takes him a second, but he clasps your hand in his. You shake firmly, and his grip is strong, yet not painful. Reassuring, in a way. You suspect he’s controlling it for your sake.

“Let’s start fresh, huh?” You give him your name, and he repeats it. 

His baritone resonates in your ears; it sounds like molasses, dripping into chest and heart. To hear your name uttered with respect, reverence, in that clear-cut way he speaks. It is nothing short of a miracle, in a moment.

You reassure him immediately, “I don’t need yours, if you’re worried about that sort of thing.” You lick your lips nervously. “But I do need something to call you. Got a preference?”

He hums, and you’re grateful how at-ease he sounds. It’s better this way. “What was it I told you that day? ‘Pick one’, I believe.”

So. This is the Mandalorian. He’s got _jokes._

You snort, more at the realisation than anything else, and his posture brightens. “If you’re sure.” You press your lips together, thinking of a name. The back of your neck tingles all the while, and the weight of his stare is welcome for the first time. “We could just keep simple? ‘Mando’ would work.”

_“Original,”_ he drawls, not unkindly. “But fine by me.” You have no idea, but it sounds like he’s smiling. 

“Alright, then, Mando.” It’s so _surreal,_ chatting with your own personal nightmare after months, just to find out he’s kind of… sweet. Nice to talk to, in a way you didn’t know you needed till now.

———

You two make small talk for a while over the counter. Mild, lighthearted. You learn that Mando’s a much more nuanced soul than you first assumed. Thoughtful, contemplative — careful in the way he speaks to you. You’re not used to that kind of consideration, and it’s appreciated. He’s funny, too, in a crooked kind of way. Like a mismatched puzzle piece fitting in the wrong set, bringing a bemused, entertained quirk to your lips. He conveys wry amusement surprisingly well, despite wearing no facial expression to back him up. 

Now that you’re not quaking at the sight of him, your curiosity emerges. Is it a pain, lugging so much armour around? Does he sleep with the helmet on? When did he get that ship, parked just outside? Is it painful, having such a pensive heart, but evoking fear with every step?

Mainly, though, you’re just happy. The blue of his beskar is softer to the eyes, now. It’s the feeling of dipping your toes into chill, crisp waters. Testing the mood of the current, of this new depth you have yet to discover.

Being friends. What a novel idea.

Mando turns to look out the window. The day is well into the afternoon; there’s still time before sunset. “I should get going,” he states, but makes no move to shift off the desk.

There’s a twinge of disappointment. “Oh. Right, your work.” You scuff the toe of your boot against the floor. What can you say, really? One day of budding friendship doesn’t give you the right to impose. 

“Yes. The Castle is… eastward, you said?” 

You hum in agreement with where his finger is pointing. A shame. You thought you’d have more time with him. “Three miles through the forest,” you intone glumly. “Can’t miss it.”

Would you have to wait a cycle to see him again? More? Would you be waiting here, stuck in your idyllic, but oh-so-small corner of the galaxy, waiting for your Mandalorian to return? You purse your lips; the image doesn’t agree with you. You don’t agree with it, rather.

Finally, he straightens, and the height difference doesn’t startle you, this time. (Impresses you, maybe. Makes something giddy flutter in your chest. But you can’t afford those thoughts, can you?)

Mando tilts his helmet side to side slightly, as if he’s considering something. Weighing the pros and cons, and the action is somewhat exaggerated. You pay no heed, picking at a nail bed idly. It’s childish, sulky.

“Three miles can be travelled by foot. No need to waste the fuel.” He turns to you. “Never been through these woods before, though. Might get lost.” 

In your disgruntlement, you don’t catch the leading inflection. You sigh. “I don’t think a Mandalorian would have much issue with an uninhabited forest. You’ll be fine. Just one straight path; don’t stray and it’s easy—”

Mando bends down a little, and says your name seriously, prompting you to look up. "I might get lost. Could use a _guide._ ”

Your lips part in realisation, forming a small ‘o’. That’s what you say, too, and heat blooms in your cheeks at his static-filled snicker. He thinks he’s clever.

“So,” you start swiftly, attempting to recover your dignity. “Is it my turn to save the damsel?” He turns to the door, and you step round the desk to join him.

“I can slay my own beasts,” he snarks, and the mirth you hear is lilting. “You can return the favour, for the dragon I just scared off.”

You huff. “Hardly a dragon, I think.” With finality, you flick off the electric lights and step outside into the clean Takodana breeze. “Wasn’t really a rescue so much as _pest control._ ” You detect the light, spiced scent of the fragrant tree bark nearby. It grounds you to this moment. Taking in a hearty breath, you do your best to put that stinking Zabrak out of your mind. 

A few hours off would be good. You barely get any guests anyway, and Maz is the understanding type. Living for millennia must do that to you.

Mando says nothing as you punch the lock code digits into the door, and start to make your way towards the forest. You know the path to the Castle like the back of your hand, like the strokes on your face, but you have never walked it with company. You smile, unabashed.

There’s a first time for everything.


	2. fair game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You bring the Mandalorian to Takodana Castle. Cards are dealt, advice is given, and a deal is struck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is... way longer than i expected. oh well.
> 
> the tags and rating HAVE CHANGED. please check them before you proceed. there is nothing explicit in this chapter, at all. there's just a lot of innuendo and references to sex, hence the rating change to M. again, NOTHING EXPLICIT. 
> 
> if you'd like to subscribe to this: thank you so much! i'd recommend subscribing to the series, rather than just this work, as i'll be posting several different instalments. <3
> 
> also, winston duke as paz vizla. holy fuck. the tea is PIPING. imagine who you want, naturally, but i'm writing this with him in mind, just to give you some perspective.
> 
> drop some kudos and comments if you liked. or you know, if you didn't. :)

He’s surprisingly quiet. 

You and Mando walk side by side, with more than enough gap to feel acceptable. Silence hangs between you. Not uncomfortable, necessarily, but the initial momentum of new camaraderie has dissipated. You expected his voice to fill the air, low and rich. Instead, you hear nothing but the crunch of branches underfoot and the incessant clicking of nearby lizards. It’s pretty underwhelming.

You bite at the inside of your cheek just for something to do. Processing the last hour or so has been simple enough; Mando has been deliberate in his movements, careful not to make you flinch. He’s mindful, in a way that warms you from the inside. You manage to keep the Zabrak from your thoughts, too.

You sigh. There’s a certain exhaustion in confrontation that you can’t stand. Doesn’t seem worth the trouble. You haven’t had this much excitement since… 

Well. Since you met the Mandalorian, really.

“Am I boring you, innkeeper?” Mando deadpans, and you crack a smile. If only he knew how far from the truth he is.

“Nothing of the sort. You’re getting me some time off, you know. This is mutually beneficial.”

“Mutually beneficial.” Sarcasm oozes through the modulator, and his drawl makes your mouth dry. You can’t see his face, sure, but you’re still far too intrigued by the way his voice wraps around the syllables. The clean click of teeth, hard enunciation. A soft rasp to the words that makes you think he must growl a lot. It’s a peculiar contrast to his neat diction. “Good to know I have my uses, then.”

You hum noncommittally, unable to find a suitable reply, but feeling at ease nonetheless. These woods never fail to calm you. Or maybe it’s him. You don’t mind, either way.

Just to see if you can, you probe him. “So. What do you want with Maz Kanata?”

A twig snaps underneath his foot, cleaves sharp and clean under his weight, and the sound rings in the air for a moment as you continue down the path. The pause drags on long enough that you think Mando won’t answer, until he finally replies, “She has something that belongs to me. To my people.”

“Oh.” That’s… cryptic. Ominous, too. But really, you shouldn’t have expected anything different. 

_His people._ Mandalorians, then. There’s something grave in his voice, somber, as if the weight of the galaxy rests on his actions today, and you secretly think he might be the type to shoulder unnecessary responsibility.

Of course, you could be wrong. It really could be the galaxy at stake, for all you know. In the face of everything you don’t know about him, of everything you’re _blindly_ trusting, you feel a little immature. Small, as if you’re a fool for meddling with a man so deeply magnanimous, entrenched in a culture you can’t begin to comprehend the significance of.

Discouraged, you fall silent, kicking at loose rocks and leaves at your feet.

But then Mando snorts. “You’re such a child.”

You choke, outraged. “Wh—”

“I’ll tell you more about my business once we meet Kanata. Don’t look so crushed.”

Your face heats with embarrassment, and your turn away. You’re _that_ obvious, then. 

Thankfully, Mando’s willing to move past it. “You’re not from around here,” he muses, and it’s not a question.

“No.” For a moment, you consider how to elaborate, not sure if he’ll even care. “I was looking for work. Landed up here, hoping Maz would need a bartender, or something.” You scowl slightly. “Not— Not that I’m any good at mixing drinks. But I think she took pity on me. Said she needed a ‘friendly face’ to man the inn, rake in some extra credits. And it stuck, so. Turns out I’m reliable.”

“That you are.”

As far as praise goes, it’s not much. But you beam at him anyway.

“S’not exactly my skillset, though.” It’s a thinly veiled attempt to capture his attention, and dutifully, he turns to face you. The corners of your smile turn smug, like the loth-cat that got the cream.

“Skillset? I wasn’t aware you had one.”

Your smirk falters abruptly. You splutter, fumbling to defend yourself, and he chuckles. It’s nothing like that night; mean and threatening, when you could hear nothing but cold derision. This is bright, bubbling up through his chest and thrumming in the air with a lyrical twang. All-encompassing in its easygoing mirth, and you feel so, so comfortable. It’s the kind of sound that, with every time you hear it, erases the chilling ghost of fears past. Smooths it over, melts it, into something like companionship. Makes you want to chase after that feeling till your muscles ache and lungs burn with lack of breath.

This is, naturally, the moment you stumble head-over-heels on a protruding root.

Your stomach drops and faster than you even realise you’re falling, there’s a solid grip around the crook of your elbow. Startled, you blink at the gloved hand preventing you from plummeting face-first into the ground as Mando ensures you’re balanced on your feet once more. His reflexes are deceivingly quick for a man of his size; he’d snapped to action in an instant. As his hand rests on your arm — so large it wraps finger-to-finger around your elbow — you can feel tension in thickly corded muscle, the kind of build that comes with many, many years of discipline.

All of a sudden, he lets go. “Watch yourself,” Mando says easily, and he has the nerve to continue walking ahead as if nothing happened. As if your bare skin isn’t aflame at the brief, burning contact. It’s stupid, because he’s wearing _gloves,_ and there couldn’t be anything to show for it. 

But your eyes still rake over that spot on your arm, as if the gentle, reassuring pressure of him has written itself on your skin for the world to see.

He’s stopped just ahead of you, and turns back expectantly. Again, _stupid_ , but— 

There’s a tug in your chest, an itch in your feet, to follow.

You manage to catch up to him with some inane comment to stave off the awkwardness, and you continue onwards. That distance is still there. Respectable, polite. Not even the occasional brush of hands. 

But somehow, you feel closer than ever.

———

He regrets touching you like that.

You had looked so shaken at the fleeting hold that Paz wondered if he’d almost triggered some kind of panic attack.

His stomach churns with the sour grip of guilt.

You’re chattering about something next to him, dainty legs quickening to keep up with his unforgiving strides. You are… remarkably small, next to him. He can still feel the soft give of your skin under his grip. Delicate, like the fragile bones of a baby bird still confined to the nest.

In truth, he’s bigger than _everyone_ to some extent or the other. He's proud of it, the way he can intimidate his enemies before even throwing a punch. But the image of a warrior more than twice your size terrorising you in the middle of the night leaves a bitter taste at the back of his throat. The constancy of your voice next to him, explaining something or other about Takodana tree bark, is a comfort. Undeserved. He should be listening, he knows, but he’s distracted.

Till now, he’s tried to push it out of his mind, if only because you seemed determined to forge ahead. Perhaps naively so. But it is difficult to forget what you told him of that night. His apology does not feel sufficient. Paz has never considered himself a dense man, but to have somehow ignored your fear at the sight of him? He feels sick. He can’t stop thinking about it. 

There’s a burning need to address it, as he feels about all unspoken things. To let things slide just isn’t in his nature. Allowing it to fester would be disrespectful. Wouldn’t do you adequate justice.

His mind flashes back to the Zabrak and he frowns. If there is one thing you deserve, it is justice. 

You pause to take a breath, and it’s in that minute break that he broaches the unthinkable. “About… that night. When we met,” he says, and you sober instantly. The way your eyes focus on him with piercing clarity, the slackening of your shoulders. He cringes at his bluntness. The foundlings like his company, certainly, but he knows his social graces leave something to be admired. Absently, he thinks that yours are much better.

“Oh. Right. Um, what about it?”

As of yet, he doesn’t know you all that well, but it is infinitely clear that you are too forgiving. Kinder than he deserves for how he has wronged you.

“I… really didn’t know I was scaring you.” Paz can hear the pleading in his own voice. For what? Forgiveness? “It was foolish of me.”

It’s selfish to feel this way, but there’s a fleeting sting of hurt in his chest. Not your fault, not by any stretch of the imagination. And he’s used to people gawking at the sight of him, for both his stature and the beskar adorning it. Such is the life of the _Mando’ade._

But for his very image to singularly torment an innocent woman. A woman he considers an ally, a _friend._ It’s… unpleasant.

You take his words in stride, as you have done since he met you today. Literally, your feet do not falter in their confidence, but there is something softer in your voice as you speak.

“You… don’t strike me as someone who scares for fun. I know that now. So, as far as I’m concerned, it was a misunderstanding. A terrible one, but— Just a mistake. From both of us, I think.” Your lips press together in a flat line, and you seem to hesitate on your next words. “And…”

“And?” Paz prompts. He shouldn’t be so insistent, has no right to be. But you take no notice.

“And looking back on that night, I’m kinda— kinda confused, actually.”

“About what?”  
You purse your lips, and his eyes track the movement unconsciously, before they snap back to your eyes, ashamed. He’s grateful for the helm, for many reasons, and this is one of them.

“When we… parted ways, for the night. You sort of— laughed at me.” You duck your head, embarrassed. You do that a lot, he’s noticed.

Laughed at you? When did he—

Oh.

His cheeks are blazing as he realises what you’re talking about. Some witless joke he’d made, a throwaway comment. Evidently, you’ve held on to it. “I can explain,” he blurts.

Then your eyes are on him, wary but clear, and he tries to calm himself. It doesn’t really work. 

“I was… rude, that evening. There were complications that I hadn’t expected, and I was frustrated.” He can’t even remember the bounty, now, but at the time he’d been irritated to no end. “Which isn’t an excuse. I was callous to you. So I thought that…”

There’s a lump in his throat that he hasn’t felt since boyhood. Ridiculous, really.

Unfortunately, you seem to put things together. “You thought making a joke would help,” you state incredulously. Your eyes are wide, lips parted, staring at him with so much disbelief etched into your features he feels _scolded._

No easy feat for one so small.

Paz winces, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “I— I felt bad. For snapping. Hence—”

“Hence scaring the shit out of me.”

“I thought it might put you at ease!”

“I thought it was a threat to my life!” Your voice borders on hysterical. You look away briefly, fumbling for words. “Mando. I tried saying goodnight, and you implied I couldn’t defend myself with the weapon I had. Then you laughed.”

Well. That’s mortifying, when you put it like that.

A thousand apologies — in Basic, Mando’a, _anything_ to try and make up for his blunder — are ready to burst from his throat, when a giggle rises out of you. Small, initially, but it grows louder and louder until you have to stop walking. Bent over and clutching your knees, you laugh so hard he swears a tear squeezes out from behind your lashes. 

But his shoulders fall, and he chuckles, too. What a mess you’ve both made.

Eventually, you straighten, barely coming up to his collarbone, and vigorously scrub at your face with both palms. It’s not a graceful gesture by any means, but his gaze is drawn to it with a focus that surprises himself. Paz catches a glimpse of teeth between your slender, lithe fingers. Your broad smile stretches the strokes of white framing your mouth and sloping across your cheeks. Your eyes crinkle up at him, catching the shades and glimmers of light through leaves and branches above.

It’s not the first time he’s had the thought, but you’re _pretty._ More so, in your joy. You radiate warmth from every pore, and there’s a lightness just from being in your presence. Pretty.

He shakes off the thought almost immediately. But only after taking a second to mull it over; enjoying the taste of it in his mind, swirling through his thoughts. It’s syrupy sweet, tickling the corners of his awareness, but not heady — it’s a fully conscious thing, this appreciation. He can indulge himself, every once in a while.

You heave a sigh, having caught your breath, and grin. Your tongue peeks out from behind a sharp canine, and Paz makes sure to keep his posture open, relaxed.

You can’t see how widely he’s smiling, after all.

“You’re hopeless,” you tease, and for some reason, he gets the feeling it’s a compliment.

Then he looks forward, prepared to move ahead. In the back of his mind, the objective — reaching Takodana Castle — lies unwavering. Focused on his goal till the end.

It’s nice to have you here, though. 

———

Eventually, you both wind up at the castle entrance after the better part of an hour. You’re pretty winded. Keeping up with Mando’s brisk pace isn’t that easy, even for someone more athletic.

Which you really, really aren’t.

The dark stone walls stand in front of you. As familiar as they are, you can’t shake the anxiety brewing in your gut. You can hear a soft commotion from inside; the chatter of passing traders, fugitives, lowlifes. The usual fare. 

“So,” you try between lightly panting breaths, “Do you want me to—”

Mando steps inside immediately, cutting you off without preamble. You hurry after him. Maz keeps peace on her turf, true, but anyone could get trigger-happy at the sight of a Mandalorian.

The hall is crowded, though it’s not yet the revelry that comes with sundown. At first glance, you can see the odd drunk scattered at the bar counter, a Chiss woman leaning against the wall, reading a holopad. There’s a sabacc game running in the corner, and you spot a familiar pair of teal lekku at the dealer’s position. You pity whoever Minola’s managed to sucker today.

Once your armoured friend enters, a hush falls over the room. Conversations halt in their tracks, and the distant background music is muted with haste. The back of your neck is _crawling_ with the feeling of eyes. So many of them, careful, worried, threatened. Mando doesn’t say anything, just scans the room methodically. He might already be used to it.

It’s when you catch the Chiss woman’s fingers twitch towards a blaster at her hip, that you decide to intervene.

Nimbly, lean out to the side of Mando with your hands raised placatingly. “Ah, he’s with me,” you call out with a skittish grin. Your voice sounds shrill, and you bite down your unease.

The tension drops sharply, and it’s a collective sigh of relief. You’re not a celebrity by any means, but you make enough trips to the castle that regulars recognise you. And it’s not like you’re particularly threatening to anyone here, anyway.

It begins to dawn on you what Maz meant by ‘friendly face’. 

You make your way across the floor, and it feels peculiar to have people part for you. Like the repulsion of magnets, inevitably thrust apart by their very nature. You have Mando to thank, obviously.

The shuddering sensation of being stared at doesn’t abate for a second. People watching him means people watching you, too. Absently, you notice a man nudge their companion next to them, pointing to their cheekbones then back to you. You grimace, and keep moving.

Takodana has a pretty mayfly crowd, for the most part, so the odds of you being welcomed by all are fifty-fifty at best. But there’s Minola, and you chat up the bartender every now and then. Little pockets of familiarity. Ripple effects go a long way, and you’re far from being shot at, in any case. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see your Twi’lek friend return to shuffling the deck, taking advantage of the players’ distraction to slip in a few extra cards from her sleeve. Must be newcomers. Your lips curl upwards.

Some onlookers give Mando a deliberate once-over, and you realise they’re checking for a bounty puck. You’ve as good as vouched for Mando, but you wonder how many people here have a reward for their head. 

It’s an assumption, really; you don’t know if he’s a bounty hunter at all. You should ask him.

You catch no sight of the diminutive woman. The bartender — a short, bearded man whose name you keep forgetting — just shrugs when you mouth the question to him. But of course, you remember the rule. 

You don’t find Maz. She finds you.

She emerges from some hidden alcove in the wall, standing in an archway, and you jump at the shrewd, croaky timbre of her voice. “Mandalorian. Come, join me.”

Like she was expecting him. How she manages to be so commanding at half your height, even less of Mando’s, you have no idea. Her goggles sit upon her forehead, and her leathery, ochre skin stretches with every cool, cutting blink.

“Maz Kanata,” Mando acknowledges gruffly. You’re dazed, for a second, at how hard his voice is. Unflinching. So different from the lightness you hear when he speaks to you. Where his resounding bass had been warm, enveloping, it is now cold. Frigid, in the way ice-water feels on bare skin. The shift is jarring.

Something strange blooms in your chest. So far, every interaction with the Mandalorian has felt private. Enclosed, like a secret you keep to yourself. As if the two of you are the only ones to exist. It’s petty, but— 

You don’t want to share.

Seemingly as an afterthought, Maz nods at you. “Innkeeper,” she greets, eyes crinkling fondly. “I trust you guided our guest?”

“Something like that.” 

You shake off your thoughts of Mando. It’s always nerve-wracking, talking to Maz; as an employee, and as a mere mortal, too. She’s never cruel, or unjust. But still. Sometimes, you catch a formidable glint in her eye, and you know you can’t afford distractions.

She and Mando step towards the archway, ready to discuss business. You’re left without a word of farewell, but Mando turns back to you with a single, brief nod, before disappearing into the passageway. The swell of the hall’s chatter returns as soon as he’s gone.

“Oi. Innkeeper.” You turn to the sound of a cool, husky voice. Minola stands at the sabacc table, beckoning you forward with one hand calmly. Her long sleeves somehow appear lighter than they did earlier — you’re lucky you know what to look for — and the players of the last round are leaving with varying expressions of disgruntlement. Several dirty looks are thrown her way as you approach the table.

“Good business?” you ask her, only half-joking.

She shrugs disinterestedly, waist-length lekku swaying slightly behind her. “You know how it is. ‘Nother day, ‘nother hustle.” The older woman takes a seat, and you take it as an invitation to do the same.

“So,” she starts decisively, “Since when are you friends with a _bucket-head?”_

You huff lightly, amused. The Twi’lek has never been known to beat around the bush. “Since today, really.” That strange feeling bubbles up in your chest once more, and you don’t feel like elaborating.

But at Minola’s table, holding your cards close to your chest never works. She raises a sharp, unimpressed eyebrow, and you notice the faint frown lines that appear on her forehead. “Today? Pretty quick, ain’t it?”

“He’s… nice.”

“Nice enough for _‘he’s with me’,_ huh?” 

“If that’s meant to sound like me, you’re doing a terrible job.”

Finally, a crooked smile breaks out on her narrow face, and you relax a fraction. ‘Friends’ isn’t really the right word for what you and Minola are, but just ‘colleagues’ is too formal. You think you’re something like acquaintances, if acquaintances share the occasional drink and lousy advice.

“Hm. S’long as you remember who he is.” She leans in, bracing a blue-green elbow on the table. A hint of her perfume, something floral and aggressive, wafts in the air, and you recognise the expression on her face. Know-it-all, with a touch of condescension. “That’s a _Mandalorian,_ kid. Don’t get in over your head.”

The pointed look she gives you warms your cheeks, like you’ve been caught with your hand in the cookie jar. A muscle ticks in your jaw from annoyance, and you feel a twinge of embarrassment.

“I’m not _‘getting into’_ anything. Don’t treat me like a child.” It must come out harsher than you expect, because the flash of surprise you feel on your face is mirrored on her own.

“Huh.” Minola runs her tongue over her upper teeth contemplatively, letting you sweat for a moment, before she says, “You might just grow a spine yet, kid.” There’s a trace of respect in her tone, and you straighten a little unconsciously.

She continues with a sigh, unbothered as she drums her neatly manicured nails on the wooden surface. “Probably for the best, anyway. I mean, the helmet never comes off, right?”

“Pretty sure.”

“It never comes off. Ever.”

Your brows furrow. “Wh— Yeah, I just said—” 

She grins at you, slow and wide and predatory, the ends of her lekku curling up deliberately. “Shame.”

You balk, and the burning in your cheeks increases tenfold. _“Minola,”_ you hiss, flustered beyond belief, and she cackles. You rest your head in your palm and look away.

“Certain activities gotta be off the table for sure,” she drawls casually, clearly enjoying herself. “But the rest of it? That’s gotta keep things interestin’.”

You could spontaneously combust right there. How is she so _relaxed?_ But… as mortified as you are, you’re curious. Moistening your lips, you steel yourself for what you’re about to ask, and she eyes you curiously.

“In— Interesting?”

You regret it immediately. Minola grins like a loth-cat who’s caught the canary, lighting up her face in sadistic glee. “Oh, lil’ dove,” she croons. _“Very_ interestin’.” Before you know it, she’s crossed to your side of the table, pressed up against you with a blue arm wrapped around your shoulders. This close, her perfume is claustrophobic in its pungency, and you could choke on the potent mist of it.

“Your Mando’s a big guy,” she whispers coyly. “Gotta wonder if it’s all… _proportional._ ”

You still. The calm before the storm.

Then you plant both palms on the table and scramble out of your chair, fully intending to wait for Mando outside where you can stand in peace without being harassed like this. But your hopes are dashed when a slender, deceivingly strong hand grabs your shirt and yanks you back into your seat. 

Minola’s crystal blue eyes roll, gleaming as you cower in your seat. “Don’t be so dramatic, now. Maker, you’re easy.”

For one long, tense moment, you think she’ll press even further. But she seems to sense you’re at the end of your tether, and she pulls out a deck of cards from nowhere to shuffle them deftly. Glancing at you from the corner of her eye, teal fingers never stopping, she clicks her tongue impatiently. “Move,” she says, jerking her head to the other side of the table. “We got time for a game before your guard dog gets back.”

“Guard dog?”

But Minola ignores you, already dealing the cards.

———

You lose. Several times.

By the time Mando’s heavy footfalls return, the Twi’lek sitting across from you is collecting your cards, ignoring your demands for yet another rematch.

“’S no fun when without a challenge, kid.” Minola raises an eyebrow to something behind you. “Besides,” she leers. “Seems like you got your hands full.”

There’s metallic clank, just over your shoulder. You crane your head upwards out of habit, and grin at the reflection you see in the beskar. There’s no sign of Maz.

“All done,” Mando rumbles, visor angled towards your face. There’s a dusty, off-white camtono in one hand, and he sounds pleased. The deal must have gone well. “What about you?”

Minola butts in, uncaring of the exchange between you. “Yeah, she’s done, Rusty.” She doesn’t bother to raise her eyes from the deck, still shuffling meticulously.

“Aw, come on, Minola. I could beat you next round—”

“You’re _done,_ kid. Lucky you didn’t have any credits on the line.” Her cerulean gaze flits to you briefly, cutting like razor-wire, and she’s right. You do feel very, very lucky.

“A-Alright.” Mando offers you a hand and you take it gratefully, rising to stand next to him. Minola watches the movement like a hawk, and you try to ignore it.

“See you round, then.” With a final, awkward wave to your Twi’lek companion, you leave Takodana Castle with your Mandalorian, and judging stares following your every move.

———

It’s on the way back that he tells you.

“Ah, innkeeper,” he starts hesitantly, and you’re immediately on edge. Your Mandalorian is not a _hesitant_ man by any stretch of the imagination.

“…yeah?”

“I’m very grateful. For everything you’ve done for me.”

Shaking your head before the words have even left the vocoder, you dismiss him immediately. “That’s— It’s nothing.” Embarrassment colours your voice. 

“No. It is very much something. You have been generous with your hospitality. And your forgiveness. Your friendship.”

His voice is… _awed,_ you think. It’s more respect than you know what to do with. You sense he has more to say, and he does.

“But… I am afraid I cannot stay.”

A sharp jolt it your gut. “What?” You don’t mean for it to come out as wounded as it does, but he’s taken you by surprise.

“I must return to my tribe. I must bring them what I came for.”

The camtono. You glance at it, hoping your resentment doesn’t show on your face.

To his credit, Mando sounds genuinely sounds apologetic. “It is my duty, innkeeper. I am sorry I cannot stay longer.”

You can’t even fault him for it. A man so staunchly devoted to his creed and his tribe that straying from his path wasn’t ever an option. 

Least of all for you.

“I understand,” you say, wishing you didn’t.

He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you, for a while. It’s a wretched, miserable quiet, punctuated by the crunch of leaves and snap of twigs. The need to break it overwhelms you enough to demand something from him.

“Leave at daybreak, then. It’s easiest. And you— You can visit. If you want.”  
To your dismay, it comes out more as a plea.

But he doesn’t mock you for it. If anything, he seems just as eager as you; the helmet whips round to face you with near-alarming urgency. 

“You’d allow me to?”

You inhale briskly. It hadn’t even occurred to you to that you could stop him, given how disastrously that went last time. But then again, it hadn’t occurred to you that you might _want_ to stop him, either. You decide not to voice these thoughts.

“Of— Of course I’d let you. Mando,” you laugh breathily, “Of _course_ I’d let you visit.”

He brightens. It’s a stark upheaval of his posture; he puffs his chest out and raises his head hopefully. Your eyes crinkle at the boyish sight.

“Then I shall. Whenever I can.”

You nod agreeably. Calm, like your chest isn’t effervescing with the thought.

Silence falls over you for the rest of the journey; a feather-light, draped blanket of contentment. It’s bittersweet, knowing he can’t stay, but you know it won’t be the last time you see him. Mando’s nothing if not a man of his word.

The first step over the inn threshold feels like a weight off your shoulders. As empty as it is, you’d rather be here than swimming with sharks back at the Castle.

“I’m gonna go use the ‘fresher,” you sigh. “You probably should, too.”

“You think I smell, innkeeper?”

“You don’t want to know what I think,” you grumble, walking past him to your quarters, and he snickers. You missed the sound.

“Not to assume, but where should I…”

“Oh,” you say lightly, turning around. Your heart beats a fraction harder. “You can just take your room. No one’s really used it since last time.”

With a smile, you step into your quarters. The door slides shut behind you, leaving Mando frozen in the hallway.

Splashing the cool tap water on your face is a relief you desperately needed. Your cheeks have been burning all day. You delay leaving your quarters for as long as possible; there’s a jittery feeling you can’t shake. Nerves? No. At least, you don’t feel _bad._ Anticipation, then.

As you change into a simple top and skirt for the evening, a bright splash of colour catches your attention. Sitting on your small bedside cabinet, a fruit lies uneaten, wrapped in canvas cloth. You’d forgotten about it this afternoon, having saved it for later — which, of course, never came. Just on the verge of turning overripe, its vibrant magenta skin is stark against the dull tan of your walls. On a whim, you grab the cloth-wrapped bundle on your way out.

Making your way to the larger common-area-style room, through a narrow archway just to the left of the entrance, you hum a tune under your breath. It used to be a communal dining hall, Maz had told you, but the likes to visit Takodana were hardly going to share a meal together in one big happy gathering. So you’d cleared out the long table, rearranged some furniture, added a central fireplace. Made it more appropriately liveable for what it is. You’re quite proud of it, actually.

Inside, the back of a helmet twinkles softly, reflecting the dusky sunset light filtering in through the window. Naturally, Mando’s already waiting for you, having made himself at home on the stone floor. He sits with his back resting on the sofa — left bizarrely unoccupied — with one long, broad leg stretched out in front of him, the other brought up loosely to his chest, bent at the knee. An elbow rests upon it lazily. He seems relaxed, his large frame sprawled across the space without apology. It’s a pleasant sight.

Your bare feet pad across the stone floor and you sit down next to him; cross-legged, at an angle, just so you can face him properly. The fact that he’s not wearing armour flits across your mind dully.

Normal clothes on a Mandalorian. It’s uncanny. 

The helmet remains, naturally. It’s his hands that you can’t drag your eyes away from.

“Your— Your gloves.”

“Hm?” Mando acts like nothing’s amiss, like this is normal. 

“You’re not _wearing them.”_ Bare skin. There’s a voice in your head screaming at you to look away, that you’re being disrespectful, but you just— can’t.

“Indeed.” Finally, he seems to notice your moral dilemma. “I cannot show you my face, innkeeper. This is the Way.” The statement rings in the air. He speaks with reverence, determination, but also with habit. You admire the devotion to his Creed, even if you don’t fully understand it.

“But,” he continues slyly, “Keeping the gloves on most of the time is just a preference. The rest of my skin is… fair game.”

“Oh.” You feel slightly inadequate with how little you have to say in the face of his bold proclamations of faith and tradition. So, resting the fruit in your lap, you take his hand. To do something, anything, to cross the gap.

Mando makes a small noise, vaguely surprised through the modulator, but doesn’t jerk away. Watching his posture carefully for any signs of discomfort, you shuffle closer, and hold his palm with both hands.

The first thing you register is the heat. He’s so _warm,_ running like a furnace beneath the skin. At this distance, you can feel it from his legs, radiating like the crackle of flames. It brings a heat to your face, too, spreading down to your chest and out to the tips of your ears.

His skin is a deep, dark brown, and you marvel at how smooth it is beneath your wandering fingers. You had expected callouses; bumps and roughness from the heavy work you assumed of Mandalorian life. But you recall what he said about the gloves, and it clicks in your mind that he really _must_ wear them a lot.

Mando watches your movements in silence, content to let you explore. It’s almost comical, just how much larger his hand is compared to yours. Maker, you’re cradling his palm with two of your own just to compensate. Unconsciously, your lips part.

You stroke his knuckles, feeling the strength and dexterity in his long, broad fingers. Turning his wrist over, you trace the lines and crevices of his palm, smiling gently. Caressing every inch of what little bare skin you have been shown. 

It feels like a blessing.

You’re so enraptured that you don’t notice the back of your neck tingling pleasantly. You don’t notice Mando staring at you, visor transfixed on your face.

Only when you tentatively press your palm on top of his, aligning your digits in a slight, petite reflection of his own, does Mando react.

You feel him tense under your ministrations, and your head snaps up worriedly. You drop his hand back onto his leg. “I’m sorry! That… that was rude.”

The helmet stares down at your hand, now retreated to your side. You feel sick, having invaded his personal space like this. Something so sacred to him. You start to panic at his silence and a hot wetness wells in your eyes. “I— I’m really sorry, Mando, I didn’t mean—”

He reaches out and takes your hand. A real, true grip, this time. “When did I say it was not alright, innkeeper?”

You blink fretfully. 

“Hm? Did I say something was wrong?” His baritone is coaxing, reassuring you out of your frenzied apologies. But hoarse, too. You don’t know why. 

“You didn’t.”

“No.” He squeezes your hand affectionately, and the pressure draws a shaky exhale out of you. “I did not.”

The rising panic ebbs once it’s clear he feels no disrespect. He’s good at this, you realise. Deescalation. Comfort. He’s had practice. 

Your hands stay intertwined.

A thought springs to mind, unbidden. “What…” You pause, wondering if you can push the boundary a little further, and he tilts his head encouragingly. “What did you get from Maz? You said it belongs to your people.”

Mando hums. “Yes.” Silence, for a split-second. Not hesitation so much as consideration. “It is beskar. The steel of Mandalore.”

You nod. Your mother had always appreciated the craftsmanship of beskar, in the way that people appreciate strange and wondrous things that are inevitably beyond them. She had passed on a similar reverence to you.

“Why did Maz have it? If it’s yours, I mean.”

Again, silence. This time, it’s foreboding. It’s the distance between the lightning bolt and the thunder; the hush before the flood. There’s a sinking feeling in your gut, and you regret asking.

“It was taken from us,” Mando says darkly. “Looted from my people in a cowardly Imperial massacre, then circulated in the Underground like common spice.” 

He spits vitriol so suddenly it could give you whiplash. Horror creeps into your face at his words.

“The _Empire_ does not care for anything but its own petty, cruel advancement.” He hisses the word as if it physically burns him to utter it. He’s… he’s angry.

You squeeze his hand, rubbing your thumb back and forth. It feels silly, but you don’t have anything else to offer. Any words you can think of are trite at best, dismissive at worst.

There is another question, burning on the tip of your tongue. You could ask, and he would not scorn you for it. But it doesn’t feel right to press, and you keep it to yourself.

The visor returns to your face from where it had been staring ahead. You look at him sadly, unable to find the words conveying your anguish on his behalf, on his people’s behalf, but you think he understands, nonetheless.

Mando sighs. It’s a heavy, burdened thing, so old in its bitterness that you think it could carry the suffering of thousands. Perhaps it does.

“But that— that is for another time. What did you bring, innkeeper?” As he changes the subject, some levity returns to his voice, and you release a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

You do not wish for his anger. Not on your last night, for the foreseeable future. You do not wish for it at all, but you think his rage would be thunderous in its tenacity. You would not be able to stop it.

“It’s _bola bola,_ ” you state, withdrawing your hand from his to unwrap the round fruit from the cloth. You hold it up, pressing the thick, fuchsia rind gently between your fingers. “I grow a bush of them round the back.” The citrus has ripened decently, sitting fat at about the size of your palm.

Deftly, you puncture the centre point with your thumb to rip open the peel, breaking the fruit in two to reveal the pale flesh inside. You smile at the familiar fragrance. Delicate enough not to overwhelm your sensitive nose, but still enchanting. “Smells good, huh?”

“I’m sure it does.”

You stare at him, bewildered. “What—” You stop yourself as the realisation smacks you in the face. _The helmet._

“Scent doesn’t register so well in here,” he explains patiently, lifting a hand to flick the metal at his temple. You know he doesn’t mean anything by it, but to your ears, the dull clank just emphasises your oversight.

“Ah, forgive me,” you murmur, abashed. How could you forget something quite literally staring you in the face? You move to keep the _bola bola_ aside, but he stops you.

“No, no. You can eat.” 

You wince. “It’s… rude.” You squirm at the thought; the rules of hospitality you were raised with are ingrained too deep.

“I don’t think one fruit will negate everything else you’ve provided, innkeeper.” Leaving you speechless convinces him he’s won. “Eat. I don’t mind.”

You shake your head determinedly. “No. I can eat these any time, and—” You falter, remembering the bad news. “—You’re leaving tomorrow. So you should try some first.”

Mando chuckles. “Bossy.” You level him with a flat look. “But I accept.”

“Great.” Then, not knowing how to move forward, “Should I… leave the room?” You don’t know how to navigate this.

“No need. I can eat here.”

“How’s that gonna work? You can’t…” Trailing off, you mime removing the helm from your shoulders. 

“There are loopholes.”

“…loopholes,” you repeat dubiously.

“Yes. If you turn around—” Here, his voice turns serious with warning. “—And _don’t look,_ I can lift it enough to try some.”

You beam at him. “I won’t look, Mando. I swear.” Before he can respond, you spin round with vigour, covering your eyes like a child. With one hand, you pass him the half-peeled fruit over your shoulder.

You wait. You feel his gaze watching you for at least a minute, ever cautious of his Creed. But then you hear a quiet hiss of suction, the unmistakeable rustle of hair, and the deafening clink of metal upon stone.

He’s sitting behind you, bare in every way that matters. If you thought his _hands_ were overwhelming, well. The knowledge that you could undo this man’s entire faith has your gut clenching uncomfortably.

Guiltily, you wonder what he looks like. How long his hair is — Curly? Flat? His eyes, do they roll as often as you think? And his smile. Oh, you’ve heard it so many times but to see it? To catch a taunting glimpse of teeth behind his lips?

You’re lost in a daze, thinking of all the what-if’s behind the visor. But before you know it, there’s a gentle tap on your shoulder. “You can turn around,” he says, and you quash the wave of disappointment at the modulated tone.

As slowly as you dare, you shift back around, and yes — the helmet is exactly where you’d left it. You manage a grin as he hands you what’s left of the _bola bola._ A surprising amount; five of the seven segments still remain.

Popping one in your mouth delicately, you ask, “Did you not like it?” A shame, really.

“Oh, I did.” Mando gracefully moves to sit cross-legged opposite you, leaning downwards towards your face. He’s— He’s much closer than before. The visor is two palms, perhaps, away from your nose. You’re overly conscious of your throat bobbing as you swallow the pulp, tart and aromatic.

“You— You didn’t eat that much.”

Absently, you reach for the next segment, but your fingers sweep against empty peel. Before you can glance down, Mando’s hand rises directly in front of your face. Between two, poised fingers rests your prize.

“Thought I should leave it for you, since you like it so much,” he says. The words are plain but the cadence of his voice is so smooth it feels decadent.

“Is it not to your tastes?” 

Mando tilts his fingertips minutely, ignoring the question, and the piece of fruit brushes against your bottom lip, feather-light.

You part your lips, never taking your eyes off the flat, dark slit where his eyes would be. He tips the segment into your mouth, and you catch it in your teeth, sinking into the membrane without yet piercing it.

Mando inhales raggedly. His thumb grazes your lip.

You bring up a hand to hold the segment as you bite into it, but you’re too enthusiastic. A spurt of coral juice drips down your fingers.

Thankfully, none lands on Mando, but it’s enough to startle you out of whatever trance you were locked in, breaking your gaze from his. Impulsively, your tongue darts out to catch the glistening droplets. You take a finger between your lips, sucking the juice from your skin before it drips to stain your clothes. 

Mando stills, like a predator about to pounce, and your instincts tell you to freeze. You do just that, your finger dropping from rouge-stained lips with a soft _pop._

“The fruit is good,” he says quietly, “But my tastes run sweeter."

His hand comes to rest on your thigh. High enough to have… meaning.

Your eyes widen. You’d imagined… Well, whatever it was, it wasn’t _this._ Contrary to what you’d have him believe, it’s not like you don’t notice the comments he makes. The subtle flirting, the compliments. You’re not _entirely_ oblivious, even though you know some things do fly over your head. You just… leave them alone, not knowing how to respond. In truth, you’re flattered.

And it’s not like you think of Mando as unattractive, no. Not even close. You’re tempted to give in to the alluring, searing contact on your body.

Then you remember, with stunning clarity, what Minola had told you.

_Interesting. Activities. Proportional._

It leaves a sour taste in your mouth. 

Maybe it’s the way she said it, in that crass way Minola always talks, but— 

You don’t want it like this.

Mando’s helm is tilted to the side teasingly, but his palm hasn’t moved. With a steadying breath, you hold his hand, and place it back in his lap. You shake your head gently, but firmly, with a half-smile.

You watch him carefully for any signs of anger, of humiliation. He straightens, and you nearly flinch with nerves, before he merely shuffles back to a more polite distance.

“Ah, I was too forward. I am sorry.”

You blink. That… was significantly easier than you expected. “It’s alright.” You should leave it there, and you would, were it anyone else. But you trust Mando. And it takes an extraordinary amount of of trust to confide in a man you have just rejected, in your experience.

You continue, resolutely not looking at him, “If I’m being honest with you, I might have wanted to. When we— With the fruit, and all. I didn’t mean to tease.” You blush, and the weight of his stare is felt _so_ keenly. “But, uh, let’s… slow down. Maybe.”

You cringe at how half-hearted you sound.

Mando nods understandingly, and your shoulders sag in relief. “I understand, innkeeper. We’ll… take it slow.” Yeah, you can hear that smile. You grin at him.

Slow is good.

You realise, as you lie in your cot that night, Mando in his own quarters two doors down, that you’re grateful for him. Grateful for his friendship, and his unwavering integrity.

This is what you think of, during bittersweet goodbyes the next morning. Backlit by an unforgiving sunrise, amidst promises to visit. You hug him goodbye, and though you must part for now, your arms around each other feel like coming home.

As his ship disappears as a speck in the atmosphere, your nose twitches at the scent of longing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations:
> 
>  _Mando'a_ \- The language of Mandalore/Mandalorians  
>  _Mando'ade_ \- Mandalorians (pl) - sons and/ or daughters of Mandalore
> 
> ———
> 
> i've said it before and i'll say it again — i am taking MAJOR LIBERTIES with togruta abilities. seriously, i'm just making this stuff up. the logic was that, since togruta can canonically sense their surroundings with montrals, then half-togruta reader might be able to sense when she's being watched? a leap, sure, but star wars canon is pretty fishy anyways, so who cares.
> 
> for anyone wondering when the fuck vosca's showing up — she's COMING. same with 'ruusaan'; y'all i am getting there. a bitch is trying. bear with me. 
> 
> also..... oral fixations, huh. seems like paz's thing. ;)
> 
> ———
> 
> i'm bopping around on [tumblr](https://teaofpeach.tumblr.com/), if you want to check that out. it's 18+ only, so if you pass, come scream at me.
> 
> drop some comments/kudos below! thanks for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> oh god it's out there now. scary stuff. 
> 
> if there's anything that you feel needs to be tagged that i haven't, let me know. i'm painfully new to this, if you couldn't already tell.
> 
> ———
> 
> i'm bopping around on [tumblr](https://teaofpeach.tumblr.com/), if you want to check that out. it's 18+ only, so if you pass, come scream at me.
> 
> drop some comments/kudos below! thanks for reading.


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